Page 169

“You have murdered for nearly everything.”

“A flexible moral framework is useful.”

He bends to lift one corner. “Help me.”

We drag the rug away. Dust rises and we fall into a fit of sneezing. From the doorway, Edward says, “What the hell are you doing?”

We both freeze. Slowly, I turn. There Edward stands in the doorway with two wine bottles tucked beneath one arm and an expression suggesting he has walked into a crime scene he is not emotionally prepared to investigate.

Alcott straightens, far too casual. “Decorating.”

Edward looks at the displaced table. The naked floor, the overturned vase, the tablecloths, the flowers, and me, holding one end of an ugly rug like a guilty undertaker.

“This is decorating?” He gestures to everything surrounding us.

“Romantic decorating,” I say.

Edward closes his eyes and the little crease between his brows. I adore creating that crease. It means he is either worried, furious, or deeply in love and pretending not to be all three at once.

“This is supposed to be a surprise for Olive,” he says.

“It still is.” I state.

“It looks like burglars lost a fight with a dining room.”

Alcott points at the rug, “In our defense, the rug started it.”

Edward sets the wine down very carefully. “That does not mean anything.”

“It was aesthetically aggressive,” I add.

Edward looks at me and I smile.

He inhales through his nose. “Where is Olive?”

“At La Sirene with Elisa,” Alcott says. “She believes she is reviewing costume repairs.”

“Is she?” His eyebrow furrows.

“For a while.”

Edward’s eyes narrow. “For a while?”

“I am going to die in this house because of your incredulous shenanigans,” Edward says.

“Eventually,” Alcott replies. “But not before you help move the table.”

Edward looks toward the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention. No god answers. Likely frightened.

By the time the dining room stops resembling a battlefield, it has become something almost beautiful. The table is gone.

In its place, we arrange cushions and low trays on the floor before the hearth. Candles line the mantle. Crimson flowers spill from mismatched vases. The good wine rests near the fire. Plates of fruit, bread, cheese, roasted meats, sugared pears, and little dark cakes wait in careful abundance.

I wanted something grand. Alcott wanted something strange and Edward wanted something Olive could leave easily if the room felt too tight. So we made all three. A feast on the floor, nest of candlelight and no chairs trapping anyone in place. No performance required, just us.

“Not terrible,” Edward says.

Alcott looks offended. “That is the highest praise our bloodline can manage.”